


Bitter Pill

by pikasafire



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikasafire/pseuds/pikasafire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>2012 Playoffs, post game 5 against the Devils.</i> No one wants to have to deal with Claude. Somehow, it ends up Danny's job anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Pill

**Title:** Bitter Pill  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Word count** : ~4,600 words  
**Team/Pairing:** Flyers. Danny Briere/Claude Giroux  
**Summary:** _2012 Playoffs, post game 5 against the Devils._ No one wants to have to deal with Claude. Somehow, it ends up Danny's job anyway.  
**Warnings:** Shaving kink. Kinda. (yeah, I don't know how that happened either) First time. Feelings.  
**A/N:** So, this totally isn't what I intended to write. Original summary, was “Claude and Danny fight. Then fuck.” And then feelings got involved, and it went from 1000 words of porn, to 4000 words of porn and feelings. Well done, self. Also, auctorial  should get, like, a jeep or a yacht or something for editing this, because IT WAS TERRIBLE. I’m sorry I don’t know how to use grammar, bb! Thank you for fixing it! <3 Love to **halfeatenmoon** too for giving this a once over while I was tearing my hair going “IT MAKES NO SENSE.”  <3<3

 

  
*

Claude is ominously quiet in the locker room after the game, sitting quietly in his stall, staring down at his dress shoes, everyone giving him a wide berth. The team is quiet as they strip down, heavy silences broken only by the occasional commiserating murmurs and meaningless platitudes.

Danny frowns, throwing his shirt into the basket with more force than is strictly necessary, feeling the frustrations of the game swell under his skin. He takes a breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it with a sigh. Now is not the time to lose his temper.

Scotty has no such compunctions, kicking furiously at his stall, sharp, aggressive movements. Danny knows better than to offer any words of comfort unless he wants a fight. He's too tired to deal with that right now, so he grabs his towel and heads to the showers. Sean gives him a wobbly smile as he enters, and Danny's pretty sure his responding grimace of a smile is just as weak. But the water is soothing on his sore muscles, and Danny leans his hands against the wall, takes a deep breath and lets himself, just for a moment, feel the crushing weight of devastation and disappointment. They were so fucking close. Too many fumbled passes and too much panicking and desperation in their plays. Sloppy. Inexcusable. He lets out the breath he's been holding, shaky and unsteady, tries to rein in his emotions. He'll give himself permission to fall apart later, but for now, he's got to get dressed, maybe call the boys, prepare to deal with the press tomorrow.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, washing off quickly. Jaramir's at the sink outside the showers, staring down at his razor. He catches Danny watching and gives him a self-deprecating ghost of a smile. "Guess we can all get rid of these now," he says. Danny just nods. He's trying not to think about it.

There's something brewing in the locker room, still and tense and silent as the guys finish up one by one, trailing out of the locker room with a quiet, "See you tomorrow." Claude hasn't moved, still sitting in his suit, no one quite brave enough to say anything to him. Danny ignores him, throwing his gear in his bag, but when he turns, Claude's standing right behind him.

"I'm coming home with you," Claude says, and Danny thinks about refusing. He doesn't want the company: he wants the time to be able to sit and stew and be angry, he wants the time to be furious and petulant and not have to worry about his responsibilities or the boys or anyone other than himself. Instead, Danny quells the frustration, sighing and picking up his bag.

"Come on then."

Claude's silently furious in the car on the way home, giving off waves of anger that make the back of Danny's neck prickle. Danny's struck by a wave of exhaustion so heavy that he slumps a little in the driver's seat, relieved that he doesn't live that far from the rink. He really doesn't want to deal with Claude's temper tantrum tonight.

The house is dark and empty. Danny flicks on the entry light, tosses his bag to the side. It's too late to call the boys, almost midnight now, and Danny kicks off his shoes and hesitates in the middle of the entry, feeling lost without having the next step in mind. Claude nudges him forward, drops his own bag next to Danny's.

"Drink," he says decisively, kicking off his shoes and heading to the kitchen. Danny pauses before following.

"Claude, I don’t really feel like - "

Claude just holds out a beer, giving Danny a threatening look. Danny doesn’t want to get into it right now, so he sighs and takes it, the liquid bitter and cold on his tongue. They stand in silence.

"I should've - " Claude starts after fifteen minutes of them both standing, staring down at the floor, the only noise the quiet clink of glass against the table as they drink. His voice fails, and he takes a noisy breath before trying again. "I should've been out there."

"I know." Danny says shortly. He's not in the mood to mince words or pander to Claude's guilt. "But you weren't, and we lost, and it's not your fault. Not any more than it's the rest of ours."

Claude's slams his glass down hard enough that Danny’s surprised it doesn’t shatter. "Don't try to placate me with your bullshit, Danny."

"Don't overestimate your worth, Claude," Danny snaps back. "Maybe it would've made a difference, maybe it wouldn't have. Who fucking cares. We lost."

He knows it's the wrong thing to say even before the words are out of his mouth, not when Claude is already riled up and tense, itching for a fight. But, he can't quite bring himself to care, even as Claude takes the few steps across the kitchen, crowding into Danny's space. "Yeah, well, you didn't exactly help there, did you? Didn't see _you_ scoring."

Danny shoves him away, anger bubbling to the surface. "Fuck you." Claude's angry and frustrated, and Danny knows he's just taking it out on him because he's convenient, but he's not the only one who lost tonight and Danny's not going to take his shit. "You want to guilt yourself over not playing, go ahead. It was a stupid fucking hit. But don't tell me I didn't put everything I had into that game."

Claude just steps forward again, close enough that those few inches of height difference seem huge, forcing Danny to take a step back, his back up against the cupboard. "If that’s your best, it wasn’t good _enough_."

Seriously? Danny stares back at him, impassive. He's not intimidated by Claude. "Easy to say that when you're on the sidelines."

Claude opens his mouth, red-faced and seething, and for a second Danny thinks Claude is actually about to throw a punch. "I'm - "

"Just. No - " Danny interrupts, shoving him away before he can finish. "I actually played tonight and I'm tired. I'm not doing this now." It's a low blow and Danny only has just enough time to register the furious look on Claude's face before he walks out.

The ensuite bathroom light is obnoxiously bright, and Danny braces himself on the sink, taking a few calming breaths before splashing his face with water. He hates this. His hands move to the razor and cream that always sit just to the left, hovering indecisively for a moment; he glances up at himself in the mirror.

The reflection in the mirror stares back at him, eyes wide, dark circles underneath. He runs a damp hand over the hair on his cheeks - he's never been fond of facial hair and his boys mock him mercilessly every year. He eyes it carefully, overly aware of the stray grey hair in his beard, and the weight of his age, of how _tired_ he is, settling heavily on his shoulders. He sighs, stripping off his jacket and shirt, and reaches for the shaving cream.

It always feels momentous to him, the shaving of the playoff beard. It's an acknowledgment of defeat, a confirmation that it's done, it's over, and there's months of uncertainty ahead. The team will change, the season's over, and once again, they've lost. It's Danny's way of mourning, and his heart sinks, heavy and low in his stomach, as he lathers the cream on his face, taking a deep breath before the first practiced stroke of the razor down one cheek.

He's halfway done when Claude appears in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. Danny would be mad, but the look on Claude's face is quietly shattered, eyes a little red around the edges.

Claude's silent as Danny finishes, the air in the bathroom chilly on his naked cheeks. Danny takes a deep breath. He feels better for having shaved, a gesture of acceptance that makes the loss no less painful, but a little easier to bear.

He splashes his face, rubs it dry with an old towel, and when he glances up, Claude's right there next to him, hip to hip. Danny starts and turns, half wary when Claude raises his hand, almost expecting a blow. Instead, Claude brushes his fingers along Danny's newly shaven cheek.

"You look better like this," Claude says, voice rough with emotion, "though I'll miss the mirror-world evil Danny."

It's as close to an apology as Claude gets, an offer of a truce, and Danny takes it, gives him a half smile. "Next year," he says, gently joking, an apology in return. "Evil Danny will be back. The villain is never really dead." It's almost enough to coax a smile, but Claude looks down at the razor on the sink instead, voice heavy and thick.

"Guess it's my turn, huh?"

Sometimes it's easy for Danny to forget how young Claude is. Losing never gets any easier, but Danny's learned how to deal, to ease the sting. Claude's not good at losing - not yet. He pushes Claude back towards the toilet, pushes him down to sit on the closed lid. "Sit down."

"What - "

"Let me." It's half question, half demand, and Danny waits for Claude to nod before reaching for the shaving cream. "Take off your shirt."

Claude looks up at him, the fight in him gone, leaving him exhausted and confused. Danny sets the can of shaving cream aside and pushes Claude's jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the tile floor. He fumbles with the first few buttons on Claude's shirt before Claude gets with the program, stumbling a little as he gets to his feet to untuck it, not bothering to undo the bottom buttons as he pulls it over his head and tosses it on the floor with Danny's.

Danny averts his eyes, swallowing hard, and busies himself with attaching a new razor blade. Maybe he hadn't thought this through. It's nothing, he reminds himself, he's just taking care of a teammate. But there's a tense feeling in his stomach; the way his hands shake a little as he fills the sink with fresh water and lathers the cream on his hands. He sees Claude naked all the time, but here, where they're both half dressed, touching in the quiet little ensuite attached to Danny's bedroom, it feels different. And Danny's not sure what that means. His stomach is clenched, heart skipping in his chest in nervous flutters as he smears the shaving cream over Claude's cheeks

"Stay still," Danny warns unnecessarily, hesitating just before razor touches skin. "You ready?"

He sees Claude take a breath, a tiny nod, and Danny swallows hard before making the first stroke. It's weird from this angle and he has to shift, nudging Claude's knees with his own until he can step between them, curling a hand around the back of Claude's head to keep him steady. Danny works slowly and silently, reaching over to the sink occasionally to rinse the blade, Claude's hands steadying him. It's difficult on someone else, and Danny's extra careful, cautious of slipping and nicking the skin. He tries to keep his focus, to keep his mind as far away from noticing how close they are, how precariously positioned with Danny's hand tangled in his hair, Claude's hands a warm pressure on his hips. Of the trust implicit in allowing Danny to do this, to touch him like this. The thought makes him stomach flip, heat flashing through his body.

Fuck.

He schools his breathing, tries to internalise the sudden panic of _holy fuck, I'm into this_ , Claude's eyes still wide and focused on Danny's face. Danny's pretty sure he's blushing. But now he's aware of it, he can't ignore it, the nervousness translating to arousal. His hand gently guides Claude's face and keeps him still, and Danny's overly aware of the intimate contact of fingers on skin. Fucking hell. He can't stop now, not without an explanation. And to be honest, he doesn't really _want_ to.

"Tilt your head back," he murmurs, "and close your eyes." He's embarrassed at how scratchy his voice sounds, at how much he wants. Claude stays silent, tipping his head back, and Danny shifts as close as he can, aware of the way their legs touch, Danny's knees against Claude's inner thighs, and all Danny would need to do is press that little bit closer, see if Claude's getting as much out of this that Danny is.

He tries to refocus, calm down a little, but the glide of the razor is exposing smooth skin and Danny's never wanted anything more than to bend his head, press his mouth to that pulse point on Claude's jaw, lick down the line of his neck. Oh God, he's in so much trouble.

It doesn't take nearly long enough to finish, the air between them fraught with tension, and Danny wonders if Claude can feel it too. He doesn't want to stop, or move away, but he's run out of reasons not to. He brushes his fingers against the newly shaven skin, skating his thumb over the smooth skin of Claude's lip, and he's crossing a line here and he knows it, but can't quite stop himself from touching, his hands shifting, coming to rest on either side of Claude's face, just under the jaw. Claude stares up at him, face unreadable, then very slowly he closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward, pressing his forehead into the warm skin of Danny's stomach, giving unspoken permission to touch. Danny bites back a noise, heart hammering, and takes a deep breath, tries to quell the feverish buzz under his skin, the overwhelming possibility of 'maybe'. There's so many things this could mean, and Danny can't settle on one; he tries to resist, but there's the giant expanse of Claude's back in front of him, the visible vertebrae at the base of Claude's neck, the shift of the muscles in his back as he breathes, and Danny _wants_. He lets his fingers trace the dips and curves he can reach, hands still shaking a little, and he tries to think about it mechanically, in terms of comfort, but Claude's breath is hot on his stomach and Danny's only human. He has to stop this before it gets out of his control. If Claude hasn't noticed yet that Danny's hard, he will soon.

He rests his hands on the back of Claude's neck, lifts his head. Claude's eyes are looking ridiculously blue in the bright light. He needs to step away, to say something to distance himself, but Claude's just staring at him, his hands still tight around Danny's hips, and Danny is hyper aware of the brush of Claude's fingers on the skin just above his trousers. His hands move of their own volition, one steadying himself on Claude's shoulder, the other cupping his jaw, and he's moving closer, dipping his head, and Claude hasn't moved or shoved him away or said anything, but Danny is so fucking paranoid that this is the worst idea ever, that Claude's waiting to laugh, that he's totally misread the situation. They're so close they're sharing the same air, and Danny closes his eyes, taking a breath, and surely, surely there's no way he's wrong about this, but he steels himself for a rejection, heart hammering as he moves that last inch to press his lips to Claude's.

Claude's mouth opens under his immediately, and the rush of relief, of want, that courses through Danny's body is so strong he feels dizzy, a little desperate noise forcing its way out of the back of his throat. The hands on his hips move further up, curling around his waist, Claude pushing into the kiss as much as he can when he's sitting, biting at Danny's mouth until Danny gasps and lets Claude lick into his mouth, hot and wet. He wraps his arm around Claude's shoulders, trying to get closer, ignoring the awkward angles and trying to press forward.

Danny's knees hit the seat with a painful clunk, and he stumbles a little when he's pushed backwards, gasping a quick, "Sorry, sorry!" Was he wrong? It’s a moment of panic that makes his chest feel like it’s caved in. Claude just laughs softly, grabbing Danny's hips, standing up and pushing him back until his back hits the wall. The tiles are freezing on his back, and Danny gasps, pushing closer to Claude to get away from it, now able to touch skin on skin and _oh_ , good plan. Danny has to tilt his head up slightly to kiss him, a strange little novelty, and Claude's hands spread wide on his back, keeping him close. He's actually shaking a little, and he feels really fucking stupid. He's the one with the extra years here. Age, not experience, he corrects mentally. It's only ever been Sylvie for him. He has no fucking idea what he's doing, only that he wants to _touch_ , and the doubts, the thought that this is a really bad idea - none of it matters anymore, not with Claude's hands on his skin, the way he's _kissing him back_.

He doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want to break the silence, just in case Claude realises what's happening, just in case he _stops_. He _needs_ this, especially as Claude shifts, kicking Danny's feet apart a little, shoving his knee in between them before pushing forward with his whole body, forearms braced on the tiles on either side of Danny's head, and holy _fuck_. If Claude is bothered by the way Danny's digging his fingernails into his shoulders, he's not saying anything, pulled back far enough so he can see Danny's face, grinding his hips down. Danny's pretty sure he should be embarrassed about the choked noises he's making, so he pulls Claude back in for a kiss, wet and desperate, and it's been so fucking long since anyone touched him like this.

"C'mon. Bed," Claude murmurs, pressing his mouth to Danny's neck. "It's like, five feet away."

Danny just nods, pulls him in again, wants Claude to stop _talking_ , because if he's talking, he's thinking, and Danny doesn't want Claude to realise what a stupid fucking idea this is. Danny won't give him the chance, sliding his hands down the smooth expanse of Claude’s chest, gripping tightly around Claude's hipbones, pushing backwards as he presses forward himself, refusing to stop kissing him while they stumble, blind and unsteady, towards the bed.

The lights are off, but the bright light from the bathroom is enough to see by, and Danny's not about to move away to turn them on. He can tell when they hit the edge of the bed: Claude stumbles, uncoordinated and clumsy as he falls on his back, messy sheets underneath him. Danny settles over him, knees on either side of Claude’s hips, his hands free, and now he can _touch_. Restless sweeps of his hands down Claude’s sides, over his chest, scratching lightly at spots he thinks will be sensitive, trying to avoid pressing against any lingering bruises.  
Claude’s hands catch his wrists, keeping his hands still, and Danny stills, eyes darting to Claude’s face, heart jumping in his chest.

“Slow down,” Claude murmurs. “Come up here.” He pushes at Danny’s side until he moves, grabbing his hips and maneuvering him where he wants him, shuffling so they’re both completely on the bed. Claude kicks the bunched sheets to the floor, settles himself on his side next to Danny, all gentle hands, and this is not what Danny wants at all. It’s too _slow_ , and Danny bites off a noise of frustration. He wants messy and desperate and to _not think_ for a while. The entire day has been like being on an emotional rollercoaster, and he just wants to get off, in every sense of the word. And there’s the lingering doubt in the back of his mind that Claude doesn’t really want this, that this is Danny’s only chance while tension is hanging thick and heavy between them.

But then Claude’s kissing him again, pressed up against his side, his free hand skating over his chest before slipping down, hovering over Danny’s belt buckle for a moment before reaching further, squeezing him through his dress pants. It’s delicious friction, and Danny pushes his hips into the pressure, tugging at Claude’s shoulders, wanting the weight of him pressing him down, the warmth of his skin, a little noise of complaint as Claude moves. Claude shifts down the bed, pressing his mouth to the tense muscles in Danny’s stomach, hands hesitating on Danny’s belt buckle. “Can I?” breathed almost silently against his skin. Danny’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to form words so he nods, his eyes wide as he props himself up on his elbows to watch. Claude’s moving so fucking slowly, unbuckling Danny’s belt, flicking open the top button of his trousers and pressing his mouth to the sliver of exposed skin.

“Claude, _Jesus._ ” It takes every ounce of self-control Danny has not to buck his hips, and Claude looks up at him through his lashes, and Danny’s honestly not sure how much more of his he can _take_. The huff of a laugh against his covered cock, and Danny groans, lets himself fall back against the mattress and squeezes his eyes shut, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand to stop himself from grabbing Claude’s hair and force him to stop teasing. He feels Claude’s fingers on his zip, feels the tap of his hand on his hip. Danny lifts his hips, keeps his eyes closed as Claude pulls both his pants and briefs off his hips with a single tug. There’s the dip of the bed as Claude shifts to remove them completely, and a pause so long that Danny opens his eyes, pushes himself up, half worried that Claude’s left.

Claude’s just standing there, staring at him, his face flushed and eyes wide. “God, Danny,” Claude unbuckles his own belt, shoves his pants off his hips hurriedly, climbing back on the bed quickly enough that for a second, Danny thinks Claude’s going to fall, then it’s skin on skin, touching everywhere, and Danny’s pretty sure if he doesn’t kiss Claude again right now, he’s going to crawl out of his own skin, hands shifting, restless and desperate, can’t touch _enough_.

“You done this before?” Words that break the silence, and Danny just wants him to _shut up_.

“No. I spent over a decade married, had three children, and remained a virgin.” It’s snappier than Danny intends, and he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question, but for _fuck’s sake_ is it really a vital conversation to be having? The answer’s pretty obvious, surely.

Claude laughs, muffling the noise in Danny’s neck, and Danny’s shoulders relax, releasing a tension he didn’t even know he was carrying, as that something slips back into place. It’s something about having the comfort of a friend’s touch, the absurdity of the whole situation - and when Claude draws back to grin at him, Danny grins back. The kiss is easier now, no less heated, but without the desperation, the undercurrent of fear or worry of rejection. “Like this then,” Claude murmurs against his mouth, shifting so he’s braced above him, aligns their hips, and grinds down.

Danny grips Claude’s hips tight enough that he knows he’s leaving bruises, his head falling back to the mattress as he pushes up, perfect sliding friction. He knows he’s making stupid noises, but Claude’s biting against his collarbone, pressing his face to Danny’s skin, little groans and half bitten off words falling from his mouth as he thrusts against him. Neither of them are going to last long, there’s been too much build-up, too many emotions throughout the day, and Danny can feel the heat curling in his stomach. Tries to press _closer_ , harder, that little bit _more_ , coiled tight and desperate until Claude presses his mouth to Danny’s jaw, mouth sliding hot and wet against his skin, and Danny gasps, and lets go.

It’s like a steam-train to the gut and he’s shaking through it, Claude still moving, jerky above him, and Danny reaches up, digs his fingers in a little tighter, and Claude groans, the wet slick of come between them. Claude drops, a heavy weight on Danny for a brief moment before he rolls half off to one side.

They’re silent, nothing but the rapid breathing, the sound of Claude’s kiss against Danny’s collarbone as they wait for their heartbeats to slow, allowing the drowsy contentedness to take over. Danny sighs, he feels like he's run through every emotion he’s had in the past twenty four hours, leaving him feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. He kisses Claude’s head, Claude curling an arm over him in response, warm and comforting and Danny runs his hand down Claude's side, brushing against soft skin, skating around a nasty bruise that he knows Claude will be bitching about tomorrow. He can already feel the aches and pains of the day starting to make themselves known.

They lost and the marks and bruises will take a while to fade, but the worst is over. Next season, they'll do better, but for now, Danny's content to just take it a day at a time.

END  


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End file.
